Many of you ask me the same question: "How do you seem to understand the different people you write? A runaway pastor, a lonely wife, a single woman...etc? Well, I'm learning about me, and I think I have a bit of an answer.
I'm weird. When someone tells me their pain, joy, panic, passions, sins, fears, suicidal thoughts, loneliness, treasons, etc.-- they go inside of me, and I not only feel them--I live them. I've not only held the pan while a woman vomits out the drugs she took to kill herself, I've been her. (Don't miss understand, I've not tried suicide, but) I've deeply co-experienced the dread and fear of many, many successful and non-successful attempts.
I've held the spouse who's love just ripped his arm from hers as he left her for the last time. And I've experienced--later in prayer--grasping with her, and escaping with him. I'm plagued with a heart that is empathetic, compassionate and therefore often heavy.
I'm leaving Sunday evening, May 10 for a hiking retreat, then a vacation with the family. I'll not be back on here until May 23rd. Sorry if you stop by and find nothing new. I am leaving without having been able to do any more work on Breakers, and for all of those who have been asking--I'm sorry. Don't give up on me. I've also not completed a book review I'd hoped to finish by now. Oh well.
As I go away on this trip, I'll try and leave behind many heartaches, cancers, struggling relationships, fears, and general sins I've been told of. And I will do a semi-decent job of it. But in the night, in the mountain forest, I may flashback to a broken friend, and I will pray.
Yep, I'm weird. I'm weak. And I need these times of being away. Thanks, those of you who know me, for loving me anyway.